


You Got Me

by Slades_Snowflakes



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, M/M, PTSD Clint, PTSD Winter Soldier, Panic Attacks, Recovery, sniper bros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:10:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5597542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slades_Snowflakes/pseuds/Slades_Snowflakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When dealing with the Winter Soldier, sometimes its best just to walk away.</p><p>"Do we need to Roshambo for this job, or could we find a way to compromise that doesn’t end with me hanging over the edge of a rafter?"</p><p>But then again, if you have nothing to lose, you might as well try your luck.  What's the worse that's going to happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emptiness

The sun beat down on him, warmth bleeding into his body. The soft wind gently tussled his hair, slowly pulling him into consciousness. With a big breath, he opened his eyes, observing the field before him; the golden wheat dancing in the wind, the bright clouds in the sky, and the open expanse in front of him. As he walked forward into the waist high wheat, letting his hands weave through their tops, he smiles. The very air seems to hug him, enveloping him in comfort. This place, this moment, has him in a dazing state of calm that he hasn’t felt in awhile. 

This place, this unscathed paradise left untouched by the very hells he has lived, the only place he has felt at peace since ‘then’, is his saving grace. This dream, this heaven, has been the only thing keeping him sane. Every night he finds refuge here, in this calm, quiet dream. But all dreams must end. Like a sound of lighting cracking through the sky, his alarm erupts through the air. The loud drums and organ music startles him and pulls him from the dream and into reality. 

As the last of the dream escapes, leaving his mind and soul feeling empty, he wakes into his living nightmare. His eyes ripe open and he stares at the cold ceiling and dark motel room, sharp breathes rattling his chest. Even though the room is empty, and no threat to cause this violent reaction, he can’t seem to catch his breath. Rapidly, frantically, he reaches out and grabs his bow from the nightstand. Cradling it to his chest, he tries to focus on it instead of the emptiness in his chest, hoping to break this panic attack before it starts.  
With shallow breathes, he tries to control his breathing, and the never ending fear that bites at his consciousness. Through it all, his alarm blares loud in the air, the piano and drums covering the sobs that soon follow.

“Can't you just fix it for me?  
I'll pay you well  
Fuck, I'll pay you anything  
If you can end this~”

\-----------------------------------------------------------  


As his focus, his goal, his mission falls through the hole of the ship and into the open air below, his attention is pulled to his surroundings.

Everything around him is in chaos. As he takes it in, he is surprisingly satisfied with this outcome. A jagged, broken smile rips across his face. In his limited existence, everything he has ever felt inside his head has been chaos, so the fact that the surrounding world is also experiencing its own messy chaos makes him feel a little more normal, a little more right. The harsh winds whips his hair into his face sharply, frantic and crazy like his uncontrolled thoughts. Small, dull stings from the glass shards that are embedded into his skin feel like the empty, burnt out feelings in his head. The burnt smell of fire in his nose mixes with the copper taste in his mouth, ghost memories of times strapped into a rusted, metal chair. The sounds of breaking glass, screeching metal, and screaming seems harsh to his ears, like his own loud, muffled screams. 

And while all these seem like bad reminders, awful experiences, the fact that his outside world feels like the inside of his messy, destroyed mind, makes this somehow feel right, fair even. Its almost relaxing to him, something he hasn’t experienced before. He wonders if this is what happiness feels like. And as he takes in the slow approach of the river, as the ship falls from the sky, he easily predicts his own demise. But with the crackle of flame in his ears, maybe this would be a good thing, the right way to go.

However, as he basks in the destruction and the upcoming silence he didn’t realize he craved, a frown soon marred his face. The screaming he is hearing is not from his surroundings, but is a voice in his head. The voice from before, though it was quieter earlier. He hadn’t really listened to it until this fight, but it comes from a part of his mind that has always been cold and dead; a quiet, dense weight that has been lifeless until this mission. A snarl escapes his lips as he looks down at the gaping hole in the ship, at the man that fell. The voice has been screaming to follow him, save him, protect him. He looks at the chaos around him, then at the deep blue sky and water below him; their calm, quietness a sharp, jarring contrast to the burning ship around him. His frown deepened. He didn’t want to leave this ship, this refuge, this conclusion of his suffering. 

But the screaming doesn’t stop, and it soon feels like his brain is shattering under this voice’s persistence. He grasps his head, feeling like his very skull would break under this pressure. 

“Stop.” The command is ripped through clenched teeth. The voice is quick to respond, offering compromises for the safety of the mission, the man. 

In the short span of his remembered existence he has had only orders; missions to complete, people to kill, voices to silence. However, in this moment in time, as this voice got louder, begging and screaming, he realized he had his first want. He wanted the voice to shut up. Permanently. There would be no other compromise. For him to leave this fiery comfort that he had found, he would demand nothing less. 

And the voice’s cry for the man’s life was greater than its will to exist. So, as he fell, as the sky swallowed him up, that heavy part of his mind where the voice came from grew quiet. As the water engulfed him, his mind didn’t feel so chaotic, so crazy. That once dense part of his mind felt empty; a hollow, quiet gap that echoed in his mind. After pulling the dead weight of the mission onto the river bank, he looked back up at the falling airship, his first happiness, to see it crash into the river and get swallowed up.

He looked back at the mission one more time, before turning on his heel and walks away. With the voice’s end, the chaos in his head didn’t seem as bad as before; less overpowering, more manageable. Maybe with this emptiness, he won’t need the hell fire and destruction to feel right. Maybe. With his first happiness dead and his first want accomplished, he wasn’t sure what he could possible want next.

  
Can't you just fix it for me?  
It's gone berserk  
Fuck, I'll give you anything  
If you can make the damn thing work~  



	2. Well, Fuck

Clint hunched into his chair, looking out the bay windows in front of him. As he watched another plane wheel by, he pulled out his phones. He had been staking out this airport, waiting for a call, a job, anything to come in. Activating the Avenger phone first, he checked his voicemails.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clint, the Great and Powerful Giver of Fucks! If this is Fury, or any other government official, fuck off! If this is Natasha, I love you, but please fuck off! If this is Cap, Dear Cap, I reserve the right as an American citizen to tell you to fuck off! If this is anyone else, I sending you a happy Fuck you!! Caw Caw Motherfuckers!”

“Message 1:

“Legolas, this is getting ridiculous, even for my standards of disappearing acts. Though I seriously doubt you are having my kinda fun. Though, if you are having my kinda fun and you didn’t invite me, you know we’ll be having words. Are you even listening? You do know that I know you listen to your messages, right? Anyways, listen up, I got you a nice little nest all set up at the Tower, just for you. So you need to check it out, like yesterday. Though today would be just as good. I won’t take no for an answer. You know me, not in my nature. What else, hm? Tell the little birdy everyone misses you? Ah! What was that for?! That’s what you told me to say! Ow! Stop, no hitting! If you didn’t want me to say it, you shouldn’t have said it! Whatever, Nat voluntold me to call. Ouch! Call if you need a pick up! You know I'm good for it!”

“Message 2:

“Oh, *cough*… um… I honor your use of the first amendment? Just checking in on you, making sure you’re fine. The team and I hope you are well…. And we wished that you were better at communicating, but we also understand your need to be alone. Though we wish that wasn’t the case. We hope you are, oh right, already said that. Sorry, we’re just worried. Be safe out there, doing… whatever you’re doing.”

“Message 3:

“Fuck you.”

Shutting his Avenger phone off, Clint snorted at it, a smile tugging at his lips. Out of all the people dealing with him going AWOL, Fury seems to be taking it the best. With a sigh, he shut off the phone and put it down before grabbing the second disposable phone, calling up the voicemail. 

“You know the drill, go.”

“Message 1:

“You got the job. 48 hours. Dubai. Ambassador Hotel. Mild security. Text when it is done.”

Clint snapped the phone shut, a grin on his face. Grabbing his bag, he headed to the nearest help desk. Nothing helps get him in a better mood than a no-strings attached hit on a baddie. Since the fall of Shield, with all the major governments working on cleaning up the mess, the mercenary scene has been ripe with jobs; mobs, questionable companies, anyone with a fat wallet has been willing to pay some extra cash to clear out any Hydra agents, wanting the work done at a faster and messier pace than what any of the governments were doing. 

And since Clint was avoiding the Avengers, Shield, actually, he was avoiding any organization with a leash, he needed to keep himself busy. And under table assassinations were something he was exceptional at. With a new ticket in hand, he rushed to the gate with a grin plastered on his face. Something he’s good at, dead Hydras, and extra cash, what more could he want?

\-------------------------------------------------------- 

Clint paused in the stairwell, clutching his ribs. “God damn! Why must these buildings be this tall?!” Even in one of the better shapes of his life, fifty floors was still fifty floors.

With a ragged breath, he looked at his watch to check the time. “Fuck!” Quickly shouldering his bag, he continued up the stairs, two steps at a time. As he neared the top, he slowed down. While he had a small window of time for this job, he needed to go in with a calm mind. As he centered himself, he set his bag down, and pulled out his equipment. With a deep breathe, he checked his gear and prepped his bow. Once ready, with bow in hand, he approached the roof access door. As he gently pushing it open, a big gust of wind blasted into the stairwell, causing him to frown. Great. With wind blowing this hard, he would have to be extra careful with his shot trajectory. 

Pushing the door open a little further, his eyes swept the rooftop. When he had chosen this rooftop for his perch, he spent time looking over the blueprints, memorizing each and every nook and cranny of the roof. So, it'd only took a second, one quick look to know if something wasn’t right. And it wasn’t. Far from it. In fact, it was bad. Very bad.

In the far right corner, in the very corner he had chosen for his perch, someone else had already made camp. From the way the man was hunched over the sniper rifle, peering through the scoop at the building across the way, Clint knew three things. 1. From the stance, the black tactical gear, and the firm and steady grip of the stock, this man meant business, the deadly kind. 2. With another assassin on the hit, his job was compromised. 

As the wind almost ripped the door from his hands, he sighed almost fondly at the rifle the man had in hand. A rifle of that caliber would be so much better for this wind. Oh yeah. Number 3. 3. He wanted that rifle.

As the guy clicked the safety off of the gun, Clint frowned. Right, focus. Got some higher priorities to worry about. Like how did this guy get up here? Was this guy sent from the same person that hired him? Was it a separate hit? If he took this kill, could he get both the rewards? Would taking care of this assassin be worth said reward? Should he try and deal with this cluster fuck, or just leave it? As he continued to silently watch his competition, he noticed that the guy started to line up his shot. Oh, fuck it, let’s play this one by ear. 

“Hate to be a downer, but I’m pretty sure that’s my kill.” As the words left Clint’s mouth, he was already kicking himself. Smart move, dumbass.

Faster than lighting, the startled man had whipped around, pistol in hand, and fired directly at Clint. “Fuck fuck fuck!” Clint quickly dove forward, finding cover behind an air duct. Note to self, don’t do that again. As he gathered himself, he listened carefully to the man approaching his cover. Over the wind, he barely heard the gravel crunch to his left. Right as the assassin rounded the corner, Clint kicked out, hitting his assailant in the knee. The motion offset the man, as a bullet sailed right over Clint’s head, ricocheting on the air duct behind him. 

While Clint hoped the kick would off-balance the man, instead of staggering, the assassin gracefully hitting the ground on one knee, his left arm shooting out in a punch aimed for Clint’s head. As Clint dodged low, rolling to the side away from the deadly man, he frowned. This was the first time he was able to take a good look at the man’s left arm, and that was a lot of metal. As he came out of his tumble roll, the information finally registered in his head. Hey, it’s a metal arm. Fuck. Frantically, he threw up his hands in a hopefully non offensive manner.

“HOLY SHIT! You have got to be kidding me?! Look Robocop! I don’t want this job that much. It’s yours!”

With both a pistol and a pair of steel grey eyes trained on him, Clint stilled. Using his metal hand to stabilize the gun in his right hand, the Soldier took the time to observe Clint. His eyes moved over Clint, his gear, and finally landing on his discarded bow, a frown forming firmly onto his face. Clint watched with intent, waiting for the decision that the Soldier would come to. Whatever decision he made, the Soldier snapped his eyes back up to meet Clint’s. Slowly his eyes narrowed, his grip getting firmer on his gun.

“You just want the job?”

Clint let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Keep his hands firmly in the air, he gently nodded, “If you think I came up all this way just for you, you are sadly mistaken.” The staring contest continued, neither moving from their position. After a few seconds of neither moving, Clint decided to risk moving; frankly, his knees were starting to hurt. Gingerly, he slowly started backing up. 

Since the Soldier made no move to stop him, Clint gently reach his bow. He could hear the grip on the gun tighten, metal grinding on metal. Slowly, smoothly, Clint moved his bow back behind him, fastening it to his quiver straps. Once secure, his hands were back in front of him. As unnerving as it was having the gun trained on him, the silver eyes locked on him was even more disturbing; the cold, calculating look sent a shiver down his spine. Clint kept backing up, slowly approaching the door. 

“You really aren’t here for me?” The words startle Clint, making him pause backing up, forcing a frown on his face, “Why would I want you?” The Soldier sneered, “Because I kill people.” The cocky jeer caused Clint to snort, “So? It’s not like you are the only person with that on their resume. So what?”

That seemed to agitate the Soldier, a dark, confused look falling over his face. He tightened his grip again, “But everyone is after me.”

Clint slouched, a frown in place, “Well, I’m not everyone." The Soldier frowned. Clint sighed and sat back on his heels, "Look, whatever is going on, I’ve been on the wrong side one too many times, willing or not. And at this point, everything is shit, even the sides that I thought were the good sides. So, right now, the only thing, the only side I can trust is my own. And I personally don’t want you. Besides, our little tussle clearly proves that I don’t stand a chance against you. I’m not that keen to being killed. So, can I please go now?”

The Soldier stared at him, processing his statement. He seemed to come to a conclusion as he gently lowered his head, not quite nodding. Clint took that as a ‘get the hell out of here’ nod, so he continued his retreat to the door. When he got to the door he slowly stood up, opening the door behind him. As he stood, the Soldier started to stand as well, backing up towards his perched sniper rifle. Without turning his back to him, Clint walked backwards into the stair well, letting the door start to close. 

As it almost closed, he saw the Soldier start to hostler his pistol. With the door finally closed, he released a deep breath. Well, that was fun. As he looked down at the gear bag he had left in the stairwell, he remember the job. Oh! Pushing the door back open, he was faced with the quickly retracted pistol aimed straight at his head. Damn, he’s quick. Clint threw his hands up again, “Whoa! Sorry, just got a question!” Soldier keep his aim, a growl escaping his lips, “What?”

Clint grinned, hoping that his nerves didn’t show, “Who hired you?” The Soldier’s brows furrowed, but he replied through gritted teeth, “Me. “ 

Clint nodded, “Sweet. That's cool. Anyway, I’m out. Good killing Winter!” With that, he let the door shut again. He spent little time packing his bow back into the bag. As he closed the last zipper, he heard a shot radiate through the door. Swinging his bag onto his back, he pulled out his phone. With a text sent, ‘Target Dead’, he grinned. His employee wanted the guy dead, they didn’t need to know how per se.  


He turned back to the stairs to leave, and the grin fell from his face. “God damn stairs.”


	3. Stake Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When in a stake out, don't talk about your issues. Seriously, leave that shit at home.

Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat.

Pausing with his hand midair, Clint checked down idly at the empty lobby below him, keeping an eye open for his target. He’d been propped up on this rafter for the past seven hours, but he had yet to see hide nor hair of the man. Still not seeing his target, he continued moving his hand, running an arrow head down the grated air duct above him.

Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat.

Clint leaned back against the cold metal wall behind him, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. With no one in the lobby at the time and shitty security, he wasn’t worried about being heard. Surprisingly, he preferred a silent stake out, cause the need to be quiet gives him something to focus. However, when you are waiting for a dirty informant janitor in the middle of the night, the need for quiet isn’t really needed. With another sigh, he sheathed his arrow with its sisters and grabbed his bow, gently testing the tension. Standing up, he tests it a few times, pulling it back, dry aiming at the door below, as if wishing his target to walk in at that exact time. Just as he lined up the sight on the door handle, he felt a gust of wind from the air duct next to him. Keeping bow in position, he wiped his head to face the duct. Through the gaps of the metal blinds, his eyes meet a pair of surprised silver eyes.

“Um, this doesn’t look like what it is…”

As the surprise left his face, the Soldier cocked an eyebrow at Clint, eyeing the bow. “A hit on a janitor?”, the Soldier’s voice echoing in the air duct. Clint sheepishly grinned back, “Yes?” A sharp grin broke across the Soldier’s face, “Looks like what it is.” Clint slowly retracted his bow before taking in the crouched Soldier on the other side of the grate.

“Do we need to Roshambo for this, or could we find a way that doesn’t end with me hanging over the edge of a rafter?”

The Soldier peaked through the grates, down to the floor below, and then slightly shrugged. “First come, first serve.” Clint nodded and let out a relieved sigh, expecting the Soldier to wander back up the air duct that he came from. However, the assassin popped the grate off the frame and positioned it behind him. He swung his legs out of the opening, letting them swing over the lip of the air duct. Once he settled, he started observing the room below them, letting silence fall over the two assassins.

Finding the silence a little unnerving, and unsure what to do with himself now that he has an audience, Clint turned to the Soldier, “Hey Winter, just so you know, you don’t have to stay. Trust me, I got this. I’m kinda a big deal when it comes this stuff.” The Soldier looked at him, a look of judgement creeping across his face. While it looked like he was going to agree by nodding, a frown formed on his face, “And what about that Berlin job?” Clint frowned, leaning towards the Soldier, “How do you know about that? And, hey, I got her.” The Soldier snorted at him, “Three weeks later.” Clint flinched, his voice almost coming out as whine, “Yeah, but I got her.”

The Soldier repositioned his legs, pulling one up against his chest. As he rested his arm on it, he returned to scanning the room. “I don’t have three weeks. I have now.” Clint pushed out a sigh and leaned back against the wall next to the duct, sinking back down the ground. Well, at least he has company now. Silent, dangerous company.

  
\---------------------------------------------  


God, this was even more boring than before. Now with Winter keeping him company, he couldn’t even goof off. After yet another hour of bored silence, as he contemplated pulling out his phone, he heard the Soldier clear his throat. Gently rolling his head to the side, he looked up expectantly at the Soldier.

The Soldier remained silent, to the point that Clint started to look back down. However, the Soldier’s voice stopped him. “Before. You said you were on the wrong side, willing or not…”

Clint’s breathe catches into his lungs, before he pushed it out through his nose. “Yeah, I don’t know if you’ve seen the news recently, but sometimes you don’t get a say on the matter. Especially when it comes to power-hungry Gods that take, take, take and never give.” Clint kept his eyes on the Soldier, as he watched him absorb the words. As a frown formed on the Soldier’s face, he tilted his head down, making solid eye contact, “What happened?”

Clint sighed and thought about blowing off this conversation as he had with every single person who tried to start it with him. However, as he looked at the silver eyes that were looking at him earnestly, he decide to try. Clint didn’t think talking about it would help him, but maybe it could help someone else. He broke the eye contact as he leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. “Truthfully, I am not so sure myself, through all the therapists I’ve talked to are all about labeling things; brainwashing, corrupting, possession. It’s all boring theoretical shit really.” 

The Soldier stayed silent for a bit, letting his own eyes wander to the floor below his feet. 

“I…”

Clint put up a hand, stopping the Soldier before he could continue. “Yeah, I know. I get Cap’s weekly Winter Soldier memos. And I so get it, I really do. But we are not going to bond over brainwashing experiences on steel rafter beams in some shady Swedish warehouse in the middle of the night, especially in the middle of a job. Thanks but no thanks.”

Clint’s outburst seems to silence the Soldier as a hard look fell over his face, and he returned his attention to the floor. Well fuck. Clint was pretty sure rule number one on dealing with the Winter Soldier was ‘don’t snap at him’. As he tried to decide weither or not he should apologize, or retract the bonding thing, his thoughts were interrupted.

“Do you have nightmares?”

Laughter bubbled in Clint’s chest, cold and hollow, and busted from his lips, hard and brittle. “Good God, why does everyone assume that I have nightmares?” Catching his breath, Clint turned back to look at the Soldier. Well, might as well talk to someone about it; someone real instead of an Ivy League papered therapist that think they can understand his hell.

“No, I don’t. Every night, I dream of my farm’s open fields. It’s like an ever reaching sea of gold, all around. It’s quite serene there; the fresh air, the calm breezes, the soft warmth of the sun. It’s when I wake up that’s the real nightmare. It’s only after I wake up, the euphoria is gone and all that is left is a cold, empty echo inside my soul; they voids in my soul that that bastard left in me.”

The Soldier frowned down at him, “He took something?” Clint clicked his mouth shut; he really should stop talking before he triggers himself. Oh well, in for pinch, in for a pound. “No he didn’t. When he… He pulled me apart, pulled my very being into a thousand pieces. I hovered in this shattered state while he manipulated my body, leaving my mind, my soul in the nethers. And when it was over, when the spell broke, I had all my pieces back. The only problem is, the parts and pieces didn’t come back together like before. I feel my soul now has these rough edges and open spaces that don’t quite match anymore.”

Clint turned back to the Soldier, seeing that his silver eyes were locked on him, absorbing everything he was saying. Clint grinned at him, his smile gagged and broken, “Funny thing is, you think I would feel like the broken puzzle that I am, but sometimes, sometimes I feel like those gaps, they feel like there’s more to me then even I know, like this is really how I’m supposed to be put together. But that’s horseshit, cause all I feel is that I am missing pieces that I have never even had before; pieces that I may never get. But it feels like I now have so much more potential. Like, in his destructive, evil way, he made me broken yet better, and for some unholy reason, a part of me feels like I should be fucking grateful!”

The last bit stumbles out as a high pitched sob. Having had finally talked about it, by actually saying the words aloud felt wrong, dirty even. Like it made this whole ordeal, this whole clusterfuck feel more real, more fragile. More terrifying. Fuck. Clint could feel his lungs start to tighten. God, was it really this bad, was he really this messed up? A jagged breathe broken from his lungs, a panic attack slowly starting to numb his body. As he gasped frantically for breathe, he could feel his hands starting to shake. Through it all, He continued to stare up into the Soldier’s eyes, latching onto the silver as a focus, anything to ground him. 

In his daze, he barely noticed the Soldier sit down in front of him, nor him reach forward and grab the back of his neck. But on contact, the cold metal sent a shiver down his spine. There was a sharp pain on his forehead as he was pulled head first into the Soldier’s forehead; startling Clint enough to reach forward and grab the Soldier by his arms. 

With eyes locked together, the Soldier open his mouth to talk, but only end up snarling at Clint. Clint watched in dazed wonder as the Soldier tried to speak multiple times, but always ended up snapping his jaw shut before any words left his mouth. In his panicked state, it was almost soothing to see the deadly assassin at such a loss on what to do. Finally a determined but pained look crossed the Soldier’s face, “They say it gets better.” However, while he tried to sound sure of the words, it only came off sounding mimicked and uncertain.

Clint started to giggle but it turned into a sob, a painful sound that echoes off the metal around them, “That’s what they always say.” In his line of work, getting comfort from a skilled killer had always seem weird and uncomfortable to Clint. However, the awkwardness of this exchange, every act that Winter displayed to try to help him, each forced touch and word seemed to help; each a tug that pulled him further and further away from his panic. With shaky hands, he gently removed the metal grip on his neck and turned his back to the Soldier, trying to gather himself. As he wiped his eyes and nose, he took big breathes. As he tried to get his shit together, he didn’t hear the sound of a door opening, nor the sound of a gun’s safety clicking off. The only sound that registered through his recovering haze was the sharp crack of a discharged pistol, followed by a dull thud as a body fell onto the floor below; the thud echoing up into the empty, metal rafters above.

Clint quickly looked behind him, but the Soldier was already gone, crawling through the air duct. As Clint wiped his nose onto his shirt, he spotted the dead janitor below him, slumped over his cleaning cart. Great, a ten hour stake out, a panic attack, and someone stole his kill. Sniffing, he grabbed gear and climbed into the air duct. 

Well, he’s had weirder jobs.


End file.
